Chrysanthemums
by Annabel-Lee-Lovegood
Summary: Maggie never knew her mother and didn't recall her father. Then she turned eleven, and a letter from Hogwarts came, changing her life into a whirlwind of discovery, love, and magic. Kinda AU, eventual GWOC, may be spoilers.
1. Chapter One

Okay. You got me. I decided to go ahead with the sequel for "Daisies." Now, don't turn away if you haven't read "Daisies." You don't need to. This story refers to the past, but it's nothing you can't understand without reading the first story. For a couple warnings, it's slightly AU, but it won't really disrupt JK Rowling's wonderful, wonderful books. And, for reader's of "Daisies," this is an almost entirely different story. Alright. Here you go. Sorry for the dreadfully long A/N. Oh! And. I don't own Harry Potter or any of the characters in Harry Potter.

* * *

**Chapter One.**  
The Letter

_To the relations of Elizabeth Cavenhaugh,_

_It is with the deepest regret that I inform you of your sister's death. She was a brilliant witch and a great friend._

_On this night, 7 August, 1978, a group of no less than five Death Eaters overtook her. She entrusted me with her only child, so that she may find her way into your, I am sure, loving care._

_Unfortunately, there is very little I know about the child, but I will reveal to you the one fact Elizabeth confirmed true. The child's paternity lies in one Sirius Black. I am sorry to say that I know nothing of his whereabouts, her name, nor her date of birth. I can only deliver her to you as Elizabeth wished and hope that she can fill up a portion of the hole Bitty's death leaves you with._

_My condolences and most passionate sorrow go out to you in this tragic event._

_S.S._

* * *

That night, Christopher had gone to the door to find a baby clutching a raven brooch, a letter bearing a grief-filled note, and a daisy filled with his sister's ghost. It had taken him a minute to register the content of the letter, but when he did, he had run to the edge of the garden in search of "S.S." 

His search was in vain, but he'd known as he looked up and down the nighttime street that it was useless as he was doing it. The world of magic was a mystery to him. The only connection to it that he possessed was a witch for a sister, and now she was...dead.

As his eyes had searched the streets, they'd come upon a glimmer of green light in the sky. Mistaking it for a trick of his mind for a second, he'd overlooked it. But his eyes had wandered back to the clear stretch sky where the light danced.

A skull. A skull with a snake protruding from its mouth. Grotesque. Unnatural. Mocking of his pain.

He wondered, did it have anything to do with Elizabeth?

He'd almost let his feet take him to the spot it marked (like the neighbors were beginning to do), but his sister's baby made a noise, a soft coo. Completely oblivious to the dark fate that had just enveloped her life that very same night, she cooed contentedly. Such a blessing it was she hadn't realized the pain because it pulled Christopher back from being the one to discover the body. Grace had stopped him from finding his beloved sister grossly positioned in the middle of the street, stopped him from swooning at her feet, prevented him from a life driven by grief, blessed him with the care of the Swansons to sort her out and deliver her with a bouquet of white chrysanthemums in her hands.

At the coo of his tiny niece, Christopher had turned back and cradled her in his arms. And there he stayed until Mr. and Mrs. Swanson came carrying Elizabeth Cavenhaugh on a white sheet, with her curls falling over the edges and her deathly white hands clasping chrysanthemums an even purer, more ghostly shade of pearl. Mrs. Swanson had made all the phone calls and had answered all of Michael's questions, leaving Christopher to mull over his grief with his sister's daughter in his careful embrace.

* * *

A/N: Hope it was satisfactory,  
A.L.L. 


	2. Chapter Two

I do not own _Harry Potter_, or any characters affiliated with _Harry Potter_. I just own the ones you don't recognize. Ta-da! Okay. From now on, if you want to check my disclaimer, see my homepage so that I don't have to keep writing these dumb ol' A/N's!

* * *

**Chapter Two.**  
Around the Telly

They all sat around the television set in the living room. Nancy was sitting to the far-left side of the tan-colored couch, knitting. Doris was sitting on Michael's lap in an armed chair, whispering sweet-nothings into his ear while he watched the program. Christopher was reading a book in his wingback, brown leather recliner. Maggie was watching the actors on the screen intently, not even a foot away from the large, old-fashioned set.

"Maggie," Christopher said softly, not needing to lift his bespectacled eyes to know that his niece was sitting too close. "Don't sit so close. You'll go blind."

"Will not," she muttered, scooting back anyway.

"I love you, Mum! I love you, Dad!" the pretty blond actress on the screen was crying as she threw her arms around her play-parents. The plot was simple enough. Girl feels sheltered. Girl rebels. Girl gets into trouble. Girl realizes her mistakes. Girl goes home. Girl is loved.

Despite the feel-good moment on the TV, Maggie, short for Maggen, gazed at the actors, discontented.

She loved her family. Uncle Chris and his wife Nancy, or, as Maggie liked to call her, Nan, were wonderful. Uncle Mike and his girlfriend Doris were fun. But neither pair were a mother and a father.

Maggie never knew her mother and didn't recall her father. Christopher and Michael, her mother's brothers, had told her that her dad had visited frequently when she was a baby but suddenly stopped coming just after the time when she turned three.

"What were my parents like?" she asked suddenly, as the end title played and the credits rolled. No one heard the peep of the little ten-year-old at first. "What were my parents like?" she asked again, a little louder. This time, though, her increased volume was unnecessary. The last chord of the song blaring from the television's crackling speakers had ceased, and a temporary quiet ensued.

At her question, Nancy, Christopher, Michael, and Doris all stopped in mid-action what they were doing. Nan's knitting needles froze in their X position. Christopher's hand hovered in the air before his face, halted on its journey to reposition his glasses. Michael and Doris's faces quit their pursuit of one another and turned towards Maggie with a funny little twist to their lips. They were dumbfounded.

"What was that, dear?" Doris asked as Christopher regained himself and switched off the television.

"I want to know about my mum and dad," she said steadily, defiantly masking the meekness that had come over her along with the sense of the disruption she'd caused.

All the adults exchanged glances, and Christopher found his voice first. Being the oldest, he took it upon himself to tell her the truth, or at least some of it. Having never really gone into much detail about Maggie's parents, he felt that maybe an almost-eleven-year-old could handle the information he was willing to give in the present company.

"Your mother," he said, "was named Elizabeth, as you know. She was beautiful. She had curly, brown hair and kind, brown eyes. You have her nose--" (he leaned forward and tweaked it) "--and her face-" (he picked her up, set her on his lap, and kissed each of her cheeks).

She giggled a bit and, upon recovering her voice, said, "What happened to her?"

"She died," Christopher muttered, though he knew Maggie understood that.

"How?" she pressed.

"Bravely," was his answer, and she dared not question any more about her parents to the solemn face of her uncle Chris.

So she turned to Michael and continued, "What about my father?"

"He..." Michael faltered. "His name was Sirius Black. You look very much like him. You have his eyes...and hair. Not to mention, his surname." He tried, less eloquently, to mimic his brother's description of Elizabeth. "Er--but we don't know what happened to him," he went on. "He was supposed to celebrate your third Halloween with you, but he never showed up. Dunno if he, er, died or...what."

"Oh." There was a silence.

"So, what about your birthday, tomorrow, eh, Maggs?" Doris squeaked in at length. Having only been Michael's girlfriend for a couple months, she didn't know much about Maggie's parents. All she knew was the obvious dead-mother/absent-father part, and she found the whole thing a bit uncomfortable. Certainly, it was a conversation to be dealt with delicately and at an older age. "What would you like to do?"

"Did you know that we didn't know your birthday right away?" Micheal interjected.

"Then how do I know that the fourteenth of July is my _real_ birthday?" Maggie demanded in indignation.

"Your dad told us," Michael pointed out, brightly.

"Right," Doris cut in. "Now that that's sorted out, how will we be celebrating?"


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three.**  
The Funny Things

Once, something funny happened. The Tumble at the Grange, Christopher had thought to call it, and it happened like this.

She was walking along the retaining wall at Nan's parent's house in the countryside. It had just finished raining and the mist gave the lush, green acres of Primrose Grange a surreal sheen. It also had given the moss atop the slate gray stones of the retaining wall a slick quality. Just as she'd neared the highest part of the wall, where the gravel road to her left dipped, she'd stepped on a particularly slippery green patch and lost her footing. Yet, somehow, she had bounced right back up and over to the Grange, as if an invisible trampoline had propelled her to a soft mud puddle on the Grange's side of the wall. She'd tried to tell Christopher about her amazing adventure, but he hadn't believed her. Not really. He'd said he did before he'd scolded her for getting her sun dress mucky, but she'd known he thought she was making it up. That passive look in his eye had told her. And she was, after all, only eight and full of an eight-year-old's stories. Not to mention, the incident _had been_ a bit unbelievable.

When she was nine and-a-half, Uncle Mike promised her that they would go out for ice cream after supper. Hurriedly, she'd gobbled down her chicken breast and mashed potatoes. She'd finished her milk in one great gulp. Delicious stuff isn't a hard thing to polish off.

"Now, Maggie," Christopher had said with a scolding brow. "You haven't touched your peas."

"I don' like 'em," she'd protested.

"What was that?" He had no tolerance for naughty children, especially naughty children with bad grammar.

"I do not like peas," she'd enunciated, folding her arms stubbornly.

"No peas, no ice cream," had been Christopher's ultimatum. (Michael's fork had clattered onto his plate at that point).

As Christopher had turned to the dishes, she'd stared at her plate with a grumpy scowl that could curdle cheese. Then, the peas had suddenly vanished. Just like that.

She'd picked out the bubble-gum flavored ice cream at the ice cream shop. The kind that had actual chunks of bubble gum in it.

On another instance a couple of months later, Maggie was in her school's garden. It had been made in honor of a girl who'd died in a riding accident. The girl's name was Judith. Judith had had the prettiest auburn hair Maggie dared dream of; the most graceful, fairy-like nose Maggie had ever seen; and the sparkliest, most thickly lashed brown eyes Maggie had ever laid eyes on. When she'd died, it was a tragedy. Maggie could even remember the story Alisson, a friend Maggie had in common with Judith, had told her about Judith's death. Alisson had said that Judith's father had rushed to her as the horse, a beautiful, mahogany-colored thoroughbred, had rolled off of her. He'd held her in his arms and cried, and she'd said, "It's okay, Papa. It doesn't hurt anymore."

Maggie had recalled the story as she'd wandered through Judith's garden. The walkway had been lined with white chrysanthemums, a flower of death and lamentation. Maggie had always thought they were pretty, and she would pick them to put on her mother's grave, next to daisies that seemed to remain there permanently. Michael and Christopher didn't know she did this, but it always felt right to her. Sometimes, she even got the slightly eerie feeling that someone was watching her, and she fancied that person to be her mother's ghost. It comforted her when she was sad.

That day, she'd picked four flowers from Judith's garden. Judith was nice and wouldn't mind Maggie taking a few of her flowers when she had so many and when Maggie was all out of pocket-money to buy her own. After she'd picked them, she'd stuffed them into her backpack. And after school, she'd gone to the grave. But when she'd withdrawn the flowers, they were wilted and broken. Maggie was so distraught, she'd sprawled out upon the grave of Elizabeth Cavenhaugh and cried. The one nice thing she could do for the woman who'd given birth to her was to bring her flowers as often as she could, and she couldn't even do that right.

When she was ready to look up, she'd expected to toss the flowers as far away from the headstone as she could, so as not to besmirch the sacred lot. However, she saw seven, perfectly conditioned flowers. Three daisies; four chrysanthemums.

At first, the miraculous events Maggie had experienced frightened and awed her. Then, she began to accept them and love them, reveling in the magical feeling that tingled in her body with each instance, and believe you me, there were many more of these strange happenings. And, for some reason, each time the funny things happened, Maggie always thought of her mum and dad. She felt deep in her heart that the funny things happened to them, too.

* * *

So when another one of the funny things happened on her eleventh birthday, she wasn't scared, but delighted. When Christopher spun her on the merry-go-round, and she insisted he go faster and faster and faster until she flew off and floated neatly to the slide across the park, Maggie imagined how her mother and father would have laughed and talked to her about all the funny things that had happened to them. 

Doris, however, didn't find this funny thing so funny.

"Demon child!" Doris shrieked, face contorting cruelly.

It was a new side to Doris that Maggie had never seen before, and the smile that had come with her parent's "memory" faded quickly as she pushed herself up from the mound at the bottom of the slide.

"Wicked, wicked girl!" Doris was screeching horrifically. "Spawn of Satan!"

It was quite a disturbance.

Other people at the park were beginning to leave. Admittedly, they were curious, but they didn't need their children in the presence of a mad woman and a "demon child." Though, they had to admit, the child didn't look very demon-like. Then again, it could be one of those _Dorian Gray_ things.

Nan was trying to calm Doris to no avail. Christopher and Michael exchanged significant looks before Michael rushed to Nan's aid and Christopher to Maggie's, for she had begun to cry.

"What have I done?" Maggie sobbed. "I didn't do a-anything! Chris, why is she saying these things? I'm not a demon! I'm not! I swear!"

"Shhhh," Christopher hushed.

"Doris," Maggie could hear Michael plead from across the park, hoping she would calm down though the playground was completely deserted by that time. "It's not like that. Calm down. Let us explain."

"Explain? You mean to say you're in on this?" She sounded scandalized. "_Freaks!_"

"It's not like that, Dori!" Michael shouted. "Just let us explain."

"No! No!" Doris wrenched herself away from Nan and Michael. "Get away from me! The whole lot of you! Stay away. I never want to see any of you freaks again!" And she turned on her heel and ran.

There was a quiet where only the faint sounds of Maggie's fading sniffles could be heard.

"Good riddance," Michael mumbled after a time, shoving a rock away with the toes of his sneakers. "Anyway. She was getting boring. Talkin' about 'commitments.'"

Another silence.

"Why did she say those things?"

Maggie was visibly vexed. Her hair was tousled from Christopher's hug, and her eyes were red and puffy.

"She doesn't understand, Maggs," Michael answered dejectedly. Even though Doris was a bit unhinged, she was a naughty little minx in the bedroom. It was a loss.

"I'm not sure _I_ understand," Maggie remarked. "The funny things just happen sometimes."

"We know. We should have warned you they might. And we should have listened to you when you told us about the Tumble at the Grange," Christopher said.

"What do you mean?" Maggie asked.

"Maggie," Christopher sighed, "you're mum and dad were wizards."


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four.**  
Witchcraft and Wizardry

"When you say wizards...?" Maggie asked when they were home. She'd been pondering what Uncle Chris had told her the entire walk home. She'd been so pensive that she hadn't even realized it was raining until she was already soaked. She just didn't understand what he could mean by 'wizards.'

There were lots of things he could mean, she supposed. They could have been really smart. They could have been "wiz's" at chess. Maybe her dad was a basketball star, like that American, Magic Johnson. She tried to picture a male with her hairstyle dribbling a basketball down the court, but the image soon faltered. The only picture that held strongly in her mind was one of hooked-nosed witches in black garb and pointy hats toiling over a cauldron.

"You don't mean...?"

"I mean exactly what you think I mean," Uncle Chris answered. "Except without the hooked-noses and boils."

"But definitely--?"

"Wands, cauldrons, broomsticks, the works," Mike said.

Maggie laughed. "That's really funny, guys. But you can give it a rest. The _real_ witch is gone. Doris ran away, remember? And I really hope she melts in that rain. So you can give up the act."

"Maggs," Chris sighed, "why don't you sit down while we explain?"

"You're really serious?" She sat down at the kitchen table, just under a leaky spot in the roof and also under the steady gazes of her uncles. She scooched over, and Uncle Mike grabbed a saucepan to catch the water.

Outside, the sky was confused. It didn't know if it should rain or shine, so it did both. The sun shone bright, happily perched in a robin's-egg blue sky to the east. But just over the part of the city where Maggie lived, a dark gray cloud dribbled over everything. It was like a murky rag that was being wrung out over them, with thick droplets and a slow, steady pace.

Christopher sat down beside her, Mike across from her. Nan, seemingly unperturbed by the funny thing that had happened at the park, busied herself with preparing the birthday cake. (Christopher had told her everything just before their wedding, of course.)

"Where to begin?" Christopher wondered aloud.

"At the beginning?" Maggie suggested.

"Yeah," Chris smiled. "Well, I guess I should tell you about Hogwarts. That's how we found out about magic, how we found out that it actually existed."

He paused for a moment to let those words sink in. Magic _actually existed._ Witchcraft and Wizardry were real things. Such a strange thing to hear. It made her re-think figures such as Father Christmas and the Headless Horseman.

"Hogwarts, you see," Uncle Chris continued, "is a school for magic. It's a private school for witches and wizards, and Elizabeth got her letter of acceptance--from the beak of an owl, as if the concept of magic in real life wasn't enough of a shocker--just after she turned eleven--"

"But _I'm_ eleven!" Maggie interjected. "Do you think--sorry." She fell silent suddenly, realizing that it was rude to interrupt as she just had, and she listened.

"Anyway," Chris said, trying to regain the momentum he'd established before Maggie had stepped on the brakes. "Elizabeth received her acceptance letter to Hogwarts just after she turned eleven, but it was a shock to hear that she was a witch. Of course, she'd always come home with strange stories--shoes tying themselves, paints somehow finding their ways into her 'arch-nemesis'' hair, and such--but I'd assumed they were just a product of Mum and Dad's deaths. They'd started happening just after the incident, and I brushed them off as such. Then the letter came, explaining everything, and a man from the school came after that to help us get her school supplies.

"She went to school the following September, and learned all sorts of things. She would come home with fantastic stories about all of her wizard friends, and we got used to the fact that she was, actually, a witch." He paused again. "By the time she'd graduated, one of her best friends, Sirius Black, had become her serious boyfriend, and, while I went off to finish my education and Mike went off to start his own college education, she went to take care of our grandmother in Germany. We found out that she was pregnant during January of 1978, after we'd visited for Christmas, but she insisted that she would be fine with Oma Ulli, and we were forbidden to uproot our lives to worry about her. We didn't hear much from her until late July, when she told us that Ulli was dead, and she would be coming home. Then, we found you on our doorstep on the seventh of August, 1978. Elizabeth was killed that same night. The Swansons--the ones with the lovely chrysanthemums in their garden--" (Maggie nodded), "found her." He stopped short.

Mike looked over to his brother anxiously. Chris had been like a father to him and Bitty after their parents had died, and he'd taken Bitty's death especially hard. He decided to wrap up the story for him. "Your dad came by a couple days later, looking for her. They'd arranged to meet...when it happened, but she'd been, well, unable to make it. He visited frequently and doted on you excessively. He gave you that stuffed dog you sleep with on your third birthday. But then he...disappeared," he finished lamely.

The story was over, and Maggie's eyes had slipped out of focus. After blinking a few times, her vision became less blurry, and she found a chocolate-frosted cake decorated with eleven candles on the table. It looked really good, and it reminded her of the mud puddle she'd landed in after the Tumble at the Grange.

"Maggie?" Nan said. "It's your favorite."

"Thank you." She blew out the candles and watched Nan cut the cake.

What she may have wished for worried Mike and Chris. What would they tell her if she asked if it was possible to magic her parents back? Their tension spread throughout the room, making the air thicker than the humidity could ever manage on its own.

But the wish consisted of no such fantasy. Maggie simply wished that she could go to Hogwarts, like her mum and dad.

And as if on cue, a tawny barn owl swooped in through the window and landed smack-dab in the middle of the birthday cake. The scene was so silly. A big ol' bird with chocolate all between his toes was there on top of that yummy cake. As it squirmed and lifted its feet uncomfortably, Maggie barely even took notice of the letter clutched in the bird's beak. Instead, she burst out laughing.

With the appearance of a simple barn owl, the bubble of tension burst. Like a needle, the bird pierced the balloon of discomfort that encased them. Maggie laughed. Chris laughed. Mike laughed. Nan laughed. Despite the shadow of the past, they laughed.

The bird, however, was less gleeful...just slightly.


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five.**  
Diagon Alley

After the owl left, Maggie opened the letter. As expected, it was a notification her acceptance to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The list of school supplies was very strange to her. A wand, for goodness sake. An actual wand. Where in the world was she supposed to buy a wand?

When she asked Michael and Christopher about it, they admitted that they didn't really know. When her mother had received her acceptance letter, she had been taken school shopping by a representative of the school in her first year. After that, they said they'd gone with her, but their memories were hazy (probably some magical malady). All they could remember was that it was a place called Diagon Alley in London and that you needed a wand to open up the portal. Like that helped.

Then, two days later, a knock came at the door.

"I'll get it!" Maggie exclaimed, bustling to the door. She wrenched it open and said, "Hi, how can I--"

It was a man. A giant man. He was closer to the size of _two_ men. He had huge hands and feet and a great, bristly beard. Maggie's eyes widened and she took a step backwards.

"Hello," he greeted in a kind, deep voice. "My name's Rubeus Hagrid, keeper of keys and grounds at Hogwarts."

Something about the word 'Hogwarts' reclaimed Maggie's vitality. She blinked and said, "Hogwarts? Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? Does that mean you're here to take me to get my school things?"

"Sure does," said Hagrid.

Maggie grinned. "Mike, Chris!" she called, turning to face the inside of the house. "Come look-and-see who's here!"

* * *

"What's that?" 

"A galleon."

"What's that?"

"A knut."

"And that one?"

"Sickle."

"Wow," she breathed. The goblin she was questioning looked less enthralled. She was just about ready to ask him what his favorite wizard treasure was, when Hagrid put a hand on her shoulder.

"Let's go," he suggested apprehensively. The warning at the entry of the bank made him uneasy, or something.

"Fine," Maggie sulked. But as soon as they were back into the alley, she couldn't help but perk up. "Where do we go first, Hagrid?" she questioned excitedly.

I'll tell you what was first. First they went to Madame Malkin's for robes. Then they headed to the Apothecary. The book store was after that.

Diagon Alley was fascinating and new. There were many people. The friendly-looking ones traveled in clusters, or the dodgy ones traveled alone and generally in the same direction, heading towards another alley called Knockturn. And every shop had its own type of regular customer and its own type of smell. Some smelled musty and had musty-looking people in dingy, dust dusted clothing. Others smelled pungent with equally pungent characters swarming the doors, sour expressions on their faces. There were places that had rich smells, like a musky cologne or dark chocolate. The people that hung around those shops typically looked rich in character...and/or garb.

The whole thing was such an overwhelming blur, and it went by so fast. And soon they only had one place left to go.

"Just one stop left," announced Hagrid at length.

They were standing in front of a store with peeling gold letters. Ollivanders.

That whole experience was a little scary. Mr. Ollivander had her wave many sticks-er-wands, and he finally decided that she was best with a 12" Holly and Dragon Heartstring. It was pretty, polished, and strong. Upon questioning Mr. Ollivander, she found that her wand would be effective in hexes, and that it was strong against evil. She practically glowed with pride as she strolled out of the shop, mischievous deeds flouncing about in her head.

She was so full of pride that she didn't realize where she was going, and she ran straight into a red-haired boy walking backwards. She stumbled to the ground, and he tripped over her, promptly falling on his rump.

"Ow!" he said.

"Watch it!" said a boy that looked exactly like him. Was she seeing double?

She stared at them and held her head. "Sorry," she murmured blearily.

Next to her, the boy she'd knocked down was getting to his feet. She realized now that the other one was his twin. As soon as he was up, he extended his hand to her.

She took it, and he pulled her up. "Sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," she said. They smiled at one another. "I'm Maggie, by the way."

"Hi, Maggie," he said. "I'm George."

"And I'm Fred," said his twin.

"Nice to meet you."

A plump woman behind them was smiling kindly. "Are you a first year, too, dear?"

Maggie nodded firmly.

Hagrid appeared at that time. "Ready to go?" He spotted her company. "Hullo, Mrs. Weasley."

"Hagrid," she greeted.

She glanced over at Fred and George. George's hair was red. Really red. "Yeah, I'm ready."

"See you at school," said Fred.

"Bye," said George, "Maggie."

"Bye."

Really red.


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six.**  
In the Graveyard and the Great Hall

In a graveyard somewhere in England, there was a man. He knelt at the base of the grave of a loved one. His head was hung. His stringy, black hair obscured the view of his pale face. He had a bouquet of daisies in his hand. The happiness of the daisies matched the green-grassed, summer world around them where the birds twittered and the squirrels frolicked. But however similar they were to the summery day, their contrast to the man was sharper. While the headstone read 'ELIZABETH CAVENHAUGH', the man's face only read sorrow and regret.

He placed the flowers on the grave and outlined the stone-carved letters of his good friend's name with his finger.

How much simpler things would have been if he'd stayed with her. Yes, the Death Eaters would have deemed him a traitor. Yes, he probably would have died soon after the event. But Bitty would be alive. And with him dead, a traitor in the Dark Lord's eyes, the Lord Voldemort would have never known about the prophecy. Lily would be alive too.

He sighed and looked up to the Robin's egg blue sky. The cemetery was on a hill in a clearing surrounded by dense woods on the Northern side and scattered trees to the East, South, and West. Hence, he had a perfectly clear view of the nearly clear sky. Only a few wisps of clouds littered the panorama, and he watched them skate through the atmosphere. Their propelling force reached him in the form of a light breeze, and he was surprised to find that the breeze chilled two lines down his cheeks.

He brushed the tears away just in time to hear someone open the Southern gate on their way up a cobblestone path.

Embarrassed and out-of-place in the muggle world, Severus Snape scurried into the woods and skirted the outer rim until his found a wide enough opening. In his surprise, he hadn't even thought to Disapparate. Now he'd have to wait for the muggle to leave, so as not to startle the being.

The figure that appeared headed purposefully towards Bitty's grave. Whoever she was, the newcomer was small and young, probably about ten or eleven. As she drew nearer, Severus was able recognize the face. Round cheeks, pointed nose, pink lips. Bitty's daughter. Shiny, black hair, gray eyes, pale skin. Black's daughter. He'd seen her many times, and she was no muggle. He'd seen her restore crumpled chrysanthemums before. Vaguely, he wondered if she already knew that she was a witch.

He turned away and made his way through the woods for a safer place to Disapparate. Whether she knew now or not, he would see her again in the Fall. He'd have plenty of time to dwell upon his misery and guilt then, and for now, the pain of seeing her mother in her face was plenty enough.

* * *

As predicted, she was there in the Great Hall for the start-of-term feast. Though the pain was great, he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. His stare was so intense as if to decipher if her life had been worth saving, if Bitty's life had been worth sacrificing, but he could find no redeeming quality, yet no flaw by simply watching her, and he eventually forced himself to tear his eyes away, though it was just as easy as undoing a Permanent Stick charm. He finally managed to release her from his gaze as red-haired boy obscured his view.

That red-haired boy was George Weasley, the boy Maggie had met in Diagon Alley. His hair was still very red, Maggie noted.

"What house do you think you'll be in?" he asked.

Her knowledge of the Hogwarts houses was small, but her uncles had told her that her mother was a Ravenclaw, and her father was a Gryffindor. "Which table's which?" she asked him.

"You see the banners?"

She did. Green, red, yellow, blue. All hanging above one table. "Yes."

"Blue is Ravenclaw, yellow is Huffelpuff, red is Gryffindor, and green is Slytherin," said George.

She pondered the names for a second, then she studied the tables the names belonged to. The Slytherins seemed ill-tempered and conniving, like the snake that adorned their banner. The Huffelpuffs seemed to be the anti-Slytherin--or rather, the Slytherins were the anti-Huffelpuff. They chatted amongst themselves cheerfully with amiable sparkles in their eyes. The Ravenclaws had keen eyes and all seemed to be very witty. When she finally turned her eyes to the table under the lion-decorated red banner, her heart was warmed at the knowledge of her father's belonging to the house of Gryffindor. These students joked jovially and gave off an aura that suggested nothing short of the utmost valor.

"Gryffindor," she answered at last. "That's where I want to be."


	7. Chapter Seven

A/N: Sorry for the wait. It's not fair. Anyway. Here it is.

* * *

**Chapter Seven.**  
The Task

"What a jerk."

"I LOATHED that class."

"And him. Don't forget about him."

"Yeah. He was really mean."

"How will we _survive_?"

"I dunno, guys. I didn't think it was so bad."

The group of gossipy, Gryffindor first years halted and swivelled around to face the speaker.

"Maggie," gasped Fred, "have you gone loony? Potions is a terrible class, and Snape is a terrible man."

"It's a teaching technique," she answered simply. "I'm not saying it redeems him at all, but he got you to pay attention, didn't he?"

The Gryffindors continued to stare at her as if questioning her sanity, but they dropped the subject after a few seconds. After that, they chatted about how unfair the no-first-years-in-Quidditch rule was, and things were back to normal. They were back to the jovial group that Maggie loved. Even better, now that their attentions were averted from herself, she was perfectly at ease to mull over her plan of action--the plan that led to the action of finding out more about her parents, that is.

First, she would check the library for attendance records. Then, she would look up the dates of attendance she found for her parents in the old _Prophets_. After that, she'd browse through the trophy room, the club records, the honor roll records, and the detention records. In this way, she hoped to find all she could about them, and, maybe, in finding them, she'd find a sense of family--or, a more acute sense of family, a sense of family like the T.v. people had

As she reached the sunny courtyard outside of the Great Hall, she wondered if her teachers would be able to give her any details. But then a young blond girl tackled her, and her thoughts were scattered.

"Maggie!" she squealed. This was Briony Miller, one of Maggie's Hufflepuff friends. Apparently, as far as Maggie had been able to deduce, Briony was brought up without a sense of personal boundaries. She was very touchy-feely.

"Briony, get off of me!"

"Guess what?" Briony bursted, still clinging to Maggie's shoulders with her tiny hands.

"What?" Maggie dared.

"Amelia and I are having a sleepover Friday night!"

Maggie narrowed her eyes. There was a problem with this.

"And _you_, my Gryffindor gal-pal, are hereby cordially invited to join us!"

Big problem. "Amelia is a Ravenclaw. You are Huffelpuff. I am a Gryffindor."

Briony shook with the enthusiasm of a puppy meeting new friends. "Yes!" she agreed, not seeming to realize the problem.

"Briony," Maggie said, grabbing her friends shoulders to stop the tremors, "we're not allowed in each other's common rooms. It won't work."

Briony gave her a scolding look. "And here you're supposed to be the Gryffindor. Where's your sense of adventure?"

A wry smile dragged at Maggie's lips.

"That's better!"

"So where are we meeting?"

Briony gave her a disbelieving stare. "That's your job, silly!"

"What?"

"See you later!"

"Bri--Briony!" But it was useless. Briony was skipping off into her boundless dream world, far out of Maggie's reach. "That _girl_," she sighed.

_Off to the library, I guess._ And though she didn't admit it, she was satisfied to have a dangerous mission ahead of her.

* * *

She made her way to the library very sneakily, suspecting everyone. When she was close, she slid along the wall, so caught up in her stealthy scheme that she didn't even notice the person next to her.

"Hi, Maggie."

She jumped and straighted up. "Hi, George."

They stared at one another for a second, George looking like he was close to asking her what she was doing. But then Fred came along.

"Bye, Maggie."

"Bye, George."

She was rooted to the spot until a couple of seconds after he was gone. He had been on the verge of jeopardizing her entire operation. She needed to be much more careful.

So she played the casual trick. "Hel-lo, Madame Pince," she drawled, leaning on the counter of the librarian's desk to the best of her ability, though her chin barely reached the surface--meaning only her elbow could rest on the counter. It was really uncomfortable, actually.

Madame Pince, as the name plate read, gave her a severe look down her nose and said, "Yes?"

"Might I please--pretty please with sugar on top--" she checked for Pince's reaction under the lid of one eye "--see the school attendance records?" While she was here, she might as well make her visit doubly productive. She had no intention of visiting the library more frequently than absolutely necessary.

Though Madame Pince found Maggie's strange behavior highly suspicious, she could not refuse. The records were there for public use. But...just in case--

"What's your name?"

Maggie thought on her toes--literally, the desk was so massive. She couldn't have this being traced back to her. "Anastasia," she purported.

"Anastasia what?" Madame Pince questioned with annoyance. "I need to know your name so that I may report you if you damage the records in any way."

"Anastasia Romanov."

Madame Pince did not look amused, but she let it slide. She didn't have time to argue with first years. So she pointed her in the right direction.

_Mission accomplished._ Now to see what she could find.


	8. Chapter Eight

A/N: I'm eternally grateful for your patience. I've had so much to do recently. I'm heading off for a study abroad program and--oh! there's just so much work to do. Once again, I apologize. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Eight.**

Eureka!

Folios, books, and volumes! Papers, parchment, and pictures! Lions, tigers, and bears! Mountains upon mountains of written information! Maggie felt dizzy just looking at it.

_Well, first thing's first,_ she sighed inwardly, pulling out a book of attendance records and a blueprint of the school, narrowly avoiding toppling the entire stack.

_1965...1966... _She skipped a few more pages, estimating that she could probably find the both of them in the 1970-71 section. Her heart pounded as she neared the pages she sought.

_1971._ She knew that they had to be listed here. Forcing herself to go slowly, she ran her finger down the roster. Amberlain_... Anderson... Barker... Beadle... Benson... Blaas... Blabkin... Blacano..._ (she rolled her eyes in frustration) _Blaccini--come on!--Black... Blanco... Boon_. She realized her mistake and scanned two names up. _Black, Sirius._

Her heart nearly stopped. She'd known he'd been at Hogwarts along with her mother, but to see it in writing--the feeling was unimaginable. To have it validated like that was such a relief to her. She nearly cried out. She resisted, of course, and read over his line, listing his House and date of attendance.

_Sirius Black_, she repeated.

Just looking at his name written in ink made her feel like he wasn't just a collection of blurry memories. It was almost as if she could see his visage peeping out from behind the letters. The dots of the 'i's were his pupils, and the names around him made up his hair, and the loopy 'r' was a strange nose...an incredibly strange nose. She cringed and cocked her head to try to visualize it better.

"Eureka!" she whispered when she finally got it. "Dad, it's really you!"

Fervently, she went further down the list, searching for her mother. And it came to her. _Cavenhaugh, Elizabeth. A Ravenclaw._

_"Mum!"_

She hugged the book to her chest.

To her right was a stack of old copies of the _Daily Prophet._ And there were school awards, detention records, and Quidditch team records, too! The mountains of information that had intimidated her only minutes ago now looked like inviting temples of jewels and riches, ripe for the taking.

She pored herself over the mounds of papers, searching for hours and hours. She missed lunch. She didn't care. Her eyes grew dry. She didn't notice. Her fingers had paper cuts. A minor affliction.

Finally, as the sun was beginning to set, Madame Pince sauntered over. She surveyed the mess with a look of mild horror. "Miss _Romanov_," she said, "you had better start to put this chaotic disarray into order. It will take you a while, I daresay."

Looking up for the first time in a long time, Maggie saw the piles of confused papers. She groaned.

* * *

It took her forty-two minutes to get everything straight again, and it took only two minutes to realize she hadn't even found a proper place to hold a sleepover with Briony and Amelia.

But, though her stomach grumbled, Maggie was a Gryffindor. Being a Gryffindor, she resolved to skip supper and tough out the hunger rather than decline a challenge and let her friends down.

Another ten minutes, and Maggie was leafing through school blueprints. As it was a magical school where some rooms were liable to come and go, they were very vague blueprints (and also very _old_ blueprints; they contained labels like 'Ye Olde Kitchens'), and she soon forgot the constricting feeling in her stomach—a feeling like she was about to implode at the belly—and was lost in the wonders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Of the permanent rooms, there were the usual classrooms and dormitories and kitchens. Of the disappearing rooms—she would see a room written down, then every so-often, out of nowhere, she'd flip the page and find the room completely absent from the paper—, she found rooms like the Reeling Room, the Foyer of Filth, the Tower of Tranquility, and the Apartment of Sorcery. They all seemed very interesting, and Maggie was sure that there had to be more of these secret rooms.

She wanted to try out the Tower of Tranquility...and the kitchens, of course.

With that, she checked the clock and whooped accordingly.

Supper was still in session.

* * *

As conspicuously as she could manage, Maggie slid into the seat next to Briony at the Huffelpuff table.

"...and Melany told Jessica who told Jeff who told Amelia who told me that Arnold Corners put slug juice in Libby Jesperson's lap," she was saying.

Briony's friend gaped at her and shook her head. (How _dare_ Arnie put slug juice on Libby?)

"So then, according to Amelia who heard it from Jeff who heard it from Jessica who—"

"Bri," Maggie interrupted, not able to stand her gossip anymore.

She shrieked and spun around. "Oh! Maggie, don't _do_ that!"

She smiled innocently. "Tell me I'm brilliant."

Her countenance changed from accusatory to elated in an instant. "You found a place?" she chirped.

Maggie nodded.

"Prodigious."

* * *

"Where is it?" Briony whined as the three girls examined the walls of the seventh floor.

"Bri," hissed Amelia, "shut _up._ Someone'll _hear _you!"

Amelia had taken to casting various spells at the walls in random places as they meandered by. Maggie was tapping the stone and listening to it--a very muggle thing to do, but could you really blame her, growing up in a house full of muggles, like she had? Briony, on the other hand, chose to cross her arms and complain. She was the one carrying the goodies they'd gotten from the kitchens, and she fancied that her arms were starting to get tired.

"Dragon's blood, my arms hurt!" she exclaimed, but her voice was drowned out by the grinding of stone on stone down the corridor.

"What the...?" Amelia uttered.

"Oh my God, we're going to die!" whimpered Briony.

"That's it!" cried Maggie, and she led the way to the place where the sound had come from.

But apparently, whatever secret passage they'd awoken slumbered again and needed another jolt to fire it back up, because when they got to the end of the hall, they found only a blank stretch of wall.

"I don't get it," Briony muttered.

"Bri, what did you say before? Maybe it needs a password?" Maggie asked.

"'My arm hurts'?"

Nothing, of course.

"Briony, what kind of password would 'my arm hurts' be?" Amelia scoffed. "What did you say before that?"

"Dragons blood..."

The wall shuddered to life. The trio jumped back in fright, and a ferocious gargoyle revealed itself from the hole in the wall. It became briefly animate said:

_"Be I in river, or lake, or land, or sky,_

_A shining knight won't pass me by,_

_Because in my cave a treasure I hide,_

_He'll plot and scheme, collude and connive,_

_But though he might fight, and he might try,_

_By my rules he must abide,_

_For my armor is strong on every side;_

_Not a flinch will ever hinder my eye!_

_Now is it your turn to identify,_

_Draco is my name, but what am I?"_

Once again, the gargoyle became stiff as stone.

"A dragon," Amelia yawned in response. "How blatantly simple."


	9. Chapter Nine

A/N: Okay. Here we go. Enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter Nine.**

In the Concealed Cabin

Throughout the rest of their stay at Hogwarts, the girls continued to utilize the Tower. They had sleepovers, held secret meetings, studied for exams when the library was too full, and made themselves official rulers of the Tower—or, as they said, the Sincerely Benevolent Queens of the Concealed Cabin. They even got to know the gargoyle that guarded the entrance. His name was Larry. He loved long walks on the beach, the smell of strawberries, the taste of pumpernickel bread, and a particular spot on the wall that he called Margerie (he had a very active imagination). Maggie was his favorite, and he wasn't particularly fond of Briony—"Her shrieks make my ears blister!" he would complain, though his ears were made of stone.

They also made rules about their hideout. To treasure the sweetness of the secret tower with the indigo cushions and dragon hide bound books and mahogany Wainscoting and heavy incense and lake view, took discipline. This discipline, unlike the discipline it took to finish an essay two days before it's due or the discipline needed to stand for a very long time at a store while your mother browses over the linens she says are perfect to use as a bead spread before she abruptly leaves with the excuse that she didn't have the money to waste on linens in the first place, they were determined to withstand. Like maintaining a beautiful, covert garden for the pleasure of one's own self—in this case, three's own selves—because it's so much more lovely when it's untainted by a stranger's greedy gaze, was how they planned to maintain their secret.

So it was not unusual that the three girls were sitting and reading together in their private study one evening during their third year. It was to be an evening that, for Maggie, would be a source of great distress for a very long time.

"Amelia, Briony," murmured Maggie, not looking or sitting up.

"Hm?"

She put down her book and thought briefly about how she wanted to say it. "I know Harry Potter, you know, defeated You-Know-Who and all, but…" That wasn't quite right. She began again: "What I mean to say is, he's certainly a special boy. And since he just got sorted into my House, I…" No. Once again, that didn't completely hit the mark. "Er—I mean—_how_ did he…why is he…?"

Amelia and Briony had propped themselves up by this time. Maggie's incoherency required rapt attention. Whatever could she mean?

"Maybe…" Maggie sighed, flustered. "Maybe you could just tell me the whole story? I never really got it in its entirety, being raised Muggle, and all."

Briony was trying hard to suppress a giggle at how muddled Maggen had made herself, so Amelia answered instead.

"Sure, Maggs," she said. Then, she related, "It was actually on Halloween Night that it happened. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had finally found out the secret hiding place of Lily and James Potter. For some reason, rather than having one of his Death Eaters do the job, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named decided to kill the Potters himself."

Maggie's mind was already swimming in questions, but she held her tongue and listened attentively.

"He came down upon Godric's Hollow—"

"I've been there," Briony interjected.

"Shush!" scolded Amelia.

"Sor-ry," grumbled Briony.

"As I was saying," Amelia went on, "he came down upon Godric's Hollow in the dead of night and broke in to the Potters' home. He killed James Potter right away. Then he moved on to Lily and Harry. I know it sounds strange, but He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was actually after a baby."

"That was something I never understood," Maggie admitted.

"It was probably just because he was so contemptuous of Lily and James for being so involved in the war against him," Briony offered, and the subject was discussed no further.

"Anyway," said Amelia, "when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named turned his wand on Harry, his curse backfired and killed him instead. That's why Harry has that lightning-shaped scar on his forehead and why he's so famous."

"Oh," said Maggie. After some thought, she asked, "How did You-Know-Who find out the Potters' whereabouts?"

"He found out from one of his most loyal followers—Sirius Black," Briony answered.

"What did you say?" _A serious quack, did she say?_

"Sirius Black," Amelia answered, "Harry Potter's own _godfather_."

"Did you hear what Black did to that Peter Pettigrew?" Briony oozed, as if it was just another thing to gossip about and not a grave subject of life and death and her friend's personal sense of identity—not that she could have known that part, anyway.

"No, Bri, I _never_ heard," Amelia answered sarcastically.

"I wasn't talking to you," chided Briony.

But Maggie was only half-listening. She was too consumed, too tormented to hundred-percent-listen. How could her father have been involved in something so destructive, so despicable, so appalling? How could he have been involved in an organization that hurt—_killed_—her mother, his betrothed? It was absolutely _impossible_.

"The man was a raving _lunatic_, Maggs," said Briony. "He killed Peter Pettigrew and twelve—or was it thirteen?—Muggles with _one_ curse! And all that they found of Pettigrew was a thumb!"

"Are you _sure_ it was a thumb?"

"Well, no. But I do know it was a very important finger."

"Why didn't you just say 'finger', then?"

"Because I thought it was a thumb!"

"But you weren't sure."

"Does it matter?"

Her friends _could_ have just been misinformed, but if they weren't—No. That was too awful to think of. Besides—

"But Sirius Black was a Gryffindor!" Maggie interrupted, in a much louder, much more panicked voice than she had intended. "But he was a Gryffindor," she repeated. ("Was he?" Briony murmured.) "How could a Gryffindor have done such a thing?"

Amelia replied, "Maggie, you think far too much of your own house."

"No—really! It's not in a Gryffindor's character!"

"Well, I don't think the _Prophet_ just _lied_," Briony tutted.

"Maggie, maybe he was a Gryffindor," Amelia said, ignoring Briony's comment, "but his entire family before him was in Slytherin House. Isn't it possible that he reverted?"

Maggie was silent.

Amelia watched her.

Briony changed the subject.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten.**  
The Chat in the Quidditch stands

"Jitterbug wings?"

"That's the throw-off option, Maggie."

"Right."

"Hey, how are you fee--"

"What about Lacewings? That's probable, right?"

It was two days after the Sincerely Benevolents' conversation in the Tower. Now, as Maggie and Amelia sat back in the Quidditch stands studying for Potions while keeping an eye on the Gryffindor's practice--because George and Fred were on the team--and Briony cheered and whooped, Amelia scrutinized more than just potion ingredients.

"Maggie, I'm trying to speak with you."

("Ooh! Hooray, Oliver! Nice save!" squealed Briony.)

"Amelia, I'm trying to figure out this ingredient."

"Maggie, I'm serious."

"Amelia, _I'm_ serious." Maggie had been on edge ever since the new information about her father. She didn't need to be belabored. "I really want to get this homework done now. I don't want to do it over the weekend."

Amelia clenched her jaw. "Fine."

Their quills scratched on their parchment for a little bit longer.

"But really, Maggie," Amelia began again, real exhasperation in her voice. "There's been something the matter with you ever since we talked about Harry Potter and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and Sirius Black. What's going on?"

Maggie had cringed when Amelia mentioned her father's name. Something about saying the name out loud _actualized_ his crimes. It made them real. For the first time, Maggie simultaneously realized that she came from filth and that the filth's name was filthy to say. There was a sort of way you had to spit it to get it out of your mouth. Just the way the 'S' was next to the 'I' in the spelling was vulgar. It made you feel like a snake. At least, it made _her_ feel like a snake, a dirty, unworthy snake.

"I don't want to talk about it," Maggie mumbled.

"I don't care; you _need_--"

"Did I tell you that Uncle Chris and Uncle Mike are moving? Nan's dad died, so they're packing up to go help her mum with the Grange. They put the house on the market," she blurted, trying desperately to avoid talking about her scurrilous father.

"Nice try, Maggie, but don't change the subject."

Maggie was spared the agony of replying when Oliver Wood shouted, "Okay, team, take a water break!"

George flew over and found his water bottle--that he'd conveniently left near Amelia, Briony, and Maggie.

"Great flying, George!" complimented Briony before she called out to Oliver.

"Thanks, Bri," panted George. He plopped down in front of Amelia and Maggie. "Hi, Amelia. Hello, Maggie."

"Hi, George," they replied together.

"Whatcha reading?"

"Potions book," answered Maggie.

"That's right--your favorite class, right?" George teased.

Maggie looked up briefly. "Shut up."

George chortled a little uneasily. He wasn't quite sure if she was serious or if she was just bantering. Of course, he knew it couldn't be bantering. That would be really presumptuous of him to think it was just playful banter. There's no way that _she_ would banter around with _him_. She wouldn't. Never. Not ever. It--he wasn't. There was no way...

To save himself from rapid and confused internal dialogue, he practically shouted, "What do you think?"

"Of what?"

"The--er--team."

"You're all wonderful," she answered, seeming uncommonly cold.

George blushed...or maybe it was a flush? He was unsure whether to be flattered by her words, or taken aback by her tone.

"I agree," Amelia offered, trying to make up for her friend's cold shoulder. "Your technique is superb, and you and Fred work together flawlessy--as ever."

"Th--" George began.

"George, what are they doing here?" Oliver Wood crabbed.

"Wha--"

"The Gryffindor is fine, but what about her two friends? They're part of the _opposition_," he emphasized. "They'll scamper back to their captains and give us away! I worked all summer on these plays, and I don't want a couple of spies taking that all away from me!"

Amelia looked scandalized.

George appeared very afraid.

Briony was just anxious.

Maggie wasn't paying attention.

"We won't, Oliver. I swear!" Briony shouted.

"They shouldn't be here," he maintained. "I won't have it. I've worked too--"

"Oliver, shut up," Maggie snapped. "They're not going to snitch on you! Not everyone is as obsessed about Quidditch as you are. I wish you would just take the broomstick out of your ass and move along. Can't you people understand? I'm trying to concentrate!"

Nobody spoke for a minute.

Then Oliver huffed and flew away.

Briony said goodbye to Alicia and was silent.

George said, "Sorry for bothering you. See you--see you later."

Amelia waited until they were gone to turn on Maggie--who had turned back to her book, glaring viciously at its pages.

"What is your problem?" she fumed. "George was just trying to be conversational, and you go ahead and stick up your nose at him. I think you really hurt his feelings!"

Maggie looked up. "What?" That got her.

"You heard me," Amelia hissed. "You were so rude. I can't believe you."

"I--" Maggie stammered. For a minute, she couldn't get out a coherent sentence, then--"God! I'm so stupid!" She covered her face with her book.

Amelia forced herself to relax and understand. She put her hand on Maggie's shoulder.

Peeking out from behind volumes of anguish, she tried to explain, but she just stumbled over her words once again. "I didn't mean to--I just--I wasn't _trying_ to..."

"Maggie. Breathe. Just breathe, and tell me what's going on," Amelia cooed.

Sighing and looking around to make sure they wouldn't be overheard--they wouldn't be, as Briony had moved away to get a better look at the team--Maggie prepared her answer.

"Okay," Maggie said after a moment, "here's how it is: Sirius Black is my father."


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven.**  
Make Amends

The next day was a Saturday. As a result of previous study, Maggie knew that George and Fred would probably be in the courtyard with Lee Jordan, discussing pranks for the future. It was with this knowledge that Maggie avoided going outside at all costs. She had acted despicably towards him; she was not about to show her face to him and cause him further disdain.

That's what she told herself, anyway--that she was avoiding him so as not to make him uncomfortable. The truth was that she felt horribly guilty, and even thinking about being near the one she'd hurt made her feel all sick inside.

Unfortunately for her, the day was beautiful, and in order to get to the grounds she needed to pass his courtyard. But, rather than make him uncomfortable, she sacrificed her day in the grass and decided that one of the castle's parapets would do just fine.

Solemnly, she mosied along the third floor coridor towards the parapet she knew best.

Too late did she notice familiar voices. Too late did she recognize the tones of Fred, George, and Lee.

"Look at what it's saying on the map."

"What is that? I can't read this sc--"

"It says--"

"Maggen!"

They all whirled about to look at her.

She was too flustered to notice Fred stowing a bit of parchment behind his back.

"H-hi--"

"What are you doing here? It's a beautiful day. Shouldn't you be outside?" Lee sputtered.

"Y-yeah. I guess so--"

"Yeah!" cried Fred. "George, why don't you show dear Maggie how lovely the blooming Mandrakes in the greenhouse look."

With one shove from Fred, George was practically in Maggie's arms. Consequently, Maggie's breath caught in her throat, and her blood rushed to her face. Heart pounding uncomfortably, she choked, "Uhh...hi George."

He pressed his lips together awkwardly and said, "Hi, Maggie."

Then they headed off, simple as that. They just did what Fred had told them to do. George was a little in front, leading the way to the greenhouses. Maggie was in the back. And there was a good-sized elephant trailing them. Maggie suspected she would have been more comfortable if the walls had grown fingers with which to poke and strangle her, than she felt as she walked down the hall with George Weasley at a perfectly leisurely pace. Guilt, as you may know, is far more distressing than physical pain.

Of course, she had not the luck of a guiltless stroll plagued with stony pinches from animated walls. Instead, she was suffocated by a mix her former wrongdoings and a strangely real illusion of gaseous guilt being pumped into the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with the lone goal of seeping into and shrivelling up Maggen Black's lungs.

This was, naturally, a trick of her imagination, and she knew it. But that didn't hide the fact that her conscience was killing her--figuratively, at least. So, as soon as they were out onto the grounds, Maggie made her decision.

Taking a massive gulp of fresh air to clear her head, and preparing the words all at once, Maggie blurted out, "I'm so sorry for the way I acted. I had no excuse."

"Sorry?" said George, examining her carefully.

This is not usually the reaction one seeks when one makes a fool of oneself in order to gain forgiveness. But you see, unfortunately for Maggie, her discomfort wasn't quite finished. I tricked you right there with that nicely formed apology, but what Maggie really said was something more like, "Eyesore-y furtherway a-tid and no Q's." She had no idea how incoherant she had sounded, so she was left in suspense for three whole seconds of thinking that George's "sorry" had meant that he was in angered disbelief, before she finally caught on to the fact that he really needed her to repeat herself, and he was just being sorry for not understanding her.

When she got her nerves back, she repeated, "I'm sorry. I acted shamefully yesterday. Will you forgive me?"

His mouth twitched, and it was a smile-y twitch rather than a frown-y twitch. Maggie had to let out a laugh of relief, and then Fred had to laugh, too, and they hosted a festival of laughter about how Fred had thought she was trying to tell him about some ugly "Q's" in some far-off land that had been doused into a tidbit acid. Needless to say, she was forgiven.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the darkness of the Hogwarts dungeons, stood Severus Snape toiling over a cauldron with an eerie green glow. It was a green that glimmered like an emerald, and it cast strange shadows over his face. Yet, the shadows were not sinister. They instead revealed a gentle mourning, that looked something like the morning of the first snow over acres and acres of rolling green hills when the earth laments the blanketing of the vibrant grass and the pale grey sky does nothing to improve the mood. So, as Severus stirred the draught, wearing the expression of the lamenting earth and the pale grey sky on the first snow, it could be deduced that he thought about a certain Lily Evans--I mean, Potter. You see, this particular color--the color of the potion, that is--happened to be precisely the color of Lily Potter's eyes (and Harry Potter--a student that Severus felt deeply aggrieved to teach--'s eyes, incidentally). And unfortunately, the pewter of the cauldron was precisely the color of the hair of another one of his pupils, one Miss Black, who happened to have precisely the shape of face and precisely the smile of another important and deceased woman in Severus Snape's life--naturally, I speak of Elizabeth (Bitty) Cavenhaugh, the curly-haired, pure-hearted school-day friend that stood by him and was killed for it.

For the terrible constricting feeling he had in his stomach, the hair-colored cauldron could have been twisting its way into his nostrils, down his nasal cavity, and through his esophogus, and for his splitting headache, the blinding green could have been scorching his retinas in a painfully exact lazer point. Neither of these fantasies were actually occurring. Rather, Severus Snape was suffering from the stress of having to keep Professor Quirrel under constant surveillance added to the stress of staring the ghosts of his past in the eyes (literally) nearly every day in not one, but two students. Hence, our pale professor was brewing a particularily potent relaxation draught.

_Just one more ingredient..._

In a flash, the potion turned into a creamy yellow-white. Possibly, you could have been mistaken it for buttermilk if you saw it on any regular occasion--I bet you'll be a little more careful with the morning coffee creamers now, won't you? This comparison was only amplified when the Professor poured some of the potion into his tea and sat back in his black-leather recliner.

The effect of the draught was immediate. As soon as his tea touched his lips, a pleasent sensation rippled throughout his body. The sensation started at his mouth and then snaked down his throat, then bloomed in his stomach, then rushed through his bloodstream, warming him from the center out. It felt like soft kisses to the surface of his skin and fluttering butterflies to his innards. And if Harry Potter, Maggen Black, or any other thought entered his mind, the potion allowed him to turn away from it without the slightest bit of effort. Therefore, with no emotion whatesoever, did Severus Snape drift off into a dream in which Harry Potter and Lily Evans twirled in circles in a whirr of colors, and Elizabeth Cavenhaugh along with Maggie and Sirius Black danced in a ring of shadowy white. And suddenly, the white shadows turned into black masses. There were swarms upon swarms of Death Eaters. Harry Potter was gone. The Blacks were gone. There were only Death Eaters and Lily and Bitty, and he was the dormant witness to it all...

Startled out of his dream, Severus bolted across the room and vomitted in an empty cauldron, cursing himself for forgetting the fairy wings, the ingredient that allowed for a long-lasting disconnection between the mind and its emotions.

When he was through retching, he wheezed a quick vanishing spell and let his thoughts consume him once more.


End file.
